


La Petite Mort

by EdgeLady



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jack, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Red Death Reaper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24334768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeLady/pseuds/EdgeLady
Summary: Jack Morrison has never been alone, even when he's watched people around him die. Now he finally gets to meet his longtime companion... and serve him.PWP, which is rather unusual for me. Don't @ me.Inspired by Oricalcon's ridiculously hotRed Death Reaper.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 29
Kudos: 150





	La Petite Mort

Is it the stillness that wakes him.

It is familiar, in its own way. The earliest memory of such eerie calm is when he was but a boy of six or seven, gazing at the silent form of his mother, pallid and white. He thinks he remembers the invisible, powerful presence of another, standing behind him. He thinks he remembers a warm touch against his cheek, comforting in its own strange way. He remembers the same years later, at his father’s deathbed, and every time thereafter that Jack has gazed upon a life taken—in battle, by plague, unjustly, by age. Never once had he felt alone. Death was an old friend.  
  
In this moment he lays, gazing up at the intricately painted ceiling, upon which angels and demons fight over piles of human corpses. This is not his family home. 

It is the weight of the white and blue and gold mask upon his face that reminds him.

This is the ballroom of the lavish home of the prince. And this had been a grand masquerade, a vulgar celebration mocking the silent death that lurked outside. The prince and all his wealthy friends alight in brilliant colors of masks and gowns and finery, had feasted and drank and danced in a visual cacophony that had at once been glorious and painfully decadent. He could not help his disgust at the display.

 _I should have left_ , Jack thinks to himself. For despite his own costume, he’d known he hadn’t belonged here. He does not even know how he received the invitation, for the prince was no friend of the Morrisons.  
  
Jack is stirred from his musings by the singularly mournful sound of a lone violin beginning a sweet melody. He stands, idly straightening his doublet of blue and gold, heavy white silk tumbling over his broad shoulders as his feathered cape falls into place. He casts a curious eye about the hall, at all the wealthy corpses for whom the grand ballroom has become an opulent crypt.

Jack should leave. There is a plague out there and plague in here as well. Death lingers in the air, and yet so does the beautiful music. He should go; but his feet carry him up the decadent staircase, past the still form of the prince draped in purple and white at the top of the stairs, and into the darkened halls beyond, following the siren song. It is only when his white-gloved hands reach for the oaken doors of the prince’s library that he pauses; what madness has possessed him, to linger in this place?

But the song continues beyond those doors. He opens them, and alight in his white and blue finery and snowy plumage in his golden hair, he enters the library without fear and beholds the Red Death.

Such is the name given by the being that awaits him. When Jack had been about to take his leave before, a vision had appeared at the top of the grand staircase: a reveler in crimson velvet cloak and bombast silken sleeves; a fitting doublet in darker and richer sanguine; tight hose clinging to muscular thighs emphasized by ruby red. But most eye-catching of all had been the mask of bone with the glistening gold over the eyes.

And the prince, he recalls, had called out a welcome from the ballroom floor, complimenting the courtier in vivid carmine, and asking after his marvelous costume, to which the stranger, arms crossed on his chest and unmoving from the landing above, had responded, “I am the Red Death.”  
  
The ballroom had filled with gasps and murmurs and uneasy shifting, for the ‘red death’ is what they called the plague outside these grand halls. The prince, enraged, had demanded hoarsely, “Who dares—!” as he’d taken the stairs. The man who named himself after a plague had raised a black hand, and the prince had fallen prostrate upon the steps. The guests had begun screaming.

Here now is the scarlet specter himself, pulling the final lingering notes of his beautiful song from the strings of a violin of lily-white. Jack stands in the center of the room, frozen in place, for he cannot tear his sky-blue eyes away from the vision before him. As the music ends and the violin is quietly set down, Jack stares.  
  
Seated like a king, sprawled on the marble dais, he sits now leaning back, his legs still wrapped in their hose, and his arms still covered in their puffy sleeves, and even the dark lining of the cloak still seen across the broad shoulders; but for all that, the rest of the costume has gone. In its place is a muscular bronze chest and abdomen. And Jack’s eyes follow the lines of that chiseled body, gaze lingering only a moment longer on dark areolas before he cannot help but continue on his downward visual journey. He swallows nervously when he encounters the tight dark curls that crown that most glorious of sights: a thick cock with a ruddy pink head, a vein throbbing along its side, and the dark sack almost delicately draped beneath, and these magnificent accouterments framed on either side by thick thighs enfolded still in ruby red. That beautiful cock glistens and as he stares, twitches just slightly.

Jack’s mouth is dry and he licks his lips and sweeps his eyes back up to the dark holes of the mask. “Who… who are you?”

“You know who I am, Jack. We are old friends.” His voice is deep. Alluring. The very sound of it sliding down Jack’s spine like a lover’s delicate touch. “I am Death. This is but one of my many aspects.”

Jack swallows again. “Why are you here?”

There is a slight tilting of the head, a shifting of the glorious plumage upon the red hat; a flash of the light across the golden mask. “They thought their wealth protected them from me.” He flicks a derisive gloved finger in the direction of the door, doubtlessly meaning the dead revelers in the ballroom. “But I hold dominion over all. You know this already… don’t you?” There’s a pause, before Death continues, and when he does, Jack can hear the smile in his voice. “Ever has the Morrison Family proven to be loyal servants. You, and your father, and your grandfather, were all soldiers… and all of you sent countless numbers to my embrace. And yet, now you help others escape me, with compassion and medicine. Even in this, you serve me, for I have no interest in those whose time is not yet here.”

And Jack knows it’s true. This is the presence he has known since his mother’s death, a shadow standing over him, casting darkness upon the fallen but comfort upon Jack. He has wept the passing of his parents and his own men, and yet he cursed not the name of Death, for he knew, in his heart, it was their time, and to this warm embrace they had gone.

Death has always been his companion. This is simply the first time he has actually _seen_ Him, with his own eyes.

“Did you… did you bring me here?” he asks quietly.

“Indeed. I summoned you here to bear witness to the reckless folly below. The prince and his fools made light of my work… but there are matters of which no jest can be made.” He raises a gloved hand, makes a dismissive gesture. “You may go now, Jack, if you wish. I know you will tell others not to mock me, for Death comes for all in time.”

At the word _comes_ Jack’s gaze slides, unbidden, towards that delicious cock once more. How dare Death be so unfairly virile? And yet, in the distant part of Jack’s brain, it makes sense. There is no life without death. And thus, there is no death without life.

Jack’s own cock is pressing uncomfortably against his pants now.

There comes a low rumble of a laugh vibrating from Death’s chest. “I see.”

Jack says nothing, but when a black finger motions for his approach, he does. Only when he is allowed to come close does he take in the finer details he’d failed to notice before: the suggestion of a neatly-trimmed beard beneath the bone mask; the glimmering beads of sweat on that bronze chest; the single tiny pearl of moisture at the very tip of that erect cock.

Death motions at the floor before the dais. “Kneel.”

And Jack does. For one does not defy Death. His heart beats a bruising thrum in his chest.

The Red Death inclines his head slightly again. “You have nothing to fear from me. It is not yet your time. Even when it is… I suspect you will embrace me. So good. So pure.” His fingers gently hold Jack’s chin beneath the beaked mask of white feathers. “Tell me, my beautiful little white swan… what would you ask of Death?”

Jack swallows again, licking his lips with the desperate longing of a man in the desert who has lain eyes on an oasis.

“I… wish to serve,” he whispers. “To serve you. In any capacity you require.”

And Death laughs softly again. “Little Swan, you have always served me, even when you did not know it. Still… I accept your offer. You have always been my favorite.” He leans forward, causing his crimson thighs to part further, invitingly. He slides black fingers through Jack’s soft blond hair, sweeping aside the snow-white feathers, and his next words are whispered. “Very well. Serve me, then.”

Jack’s breath hitches in his chest and he crawls closer. He catches the scent wafting off Death, and while there is a distant cloying sickly sweet scent of decay, it isn’t overpowering to his senses. Indeed, Jack thinks he smells something primal, like smoke from a stoked fire, but there is also… a flowery scent that reminds him of his mother’s garden of white lilies. It is comforting.

His own dick throbs with the thought of getting fucked by this powerful being and it is with gusto that his tongue wraps around the ruddy head of Death’s cock. His pride is stoked when he hears a soft grunt from the other being. Not even Death is immune to Jack’s sinfully good skills. Emboldened, he slowly begins to swallow the massive cock, pushing past his gag reflex and further, until he is all but choking on the thing and his nose is buried in the fragrant dark curls.

“My swan,” Death says with a soft sigh. His fingers cant gently through blond hair. “Oh my precious Jack, how I’ve longed for this. Take what you will. We shall both enjoy it, I think.”

And Jack closes his eyes to better enjoy his work this night. For all the death that lay in the ballroom below, he cannot help but feel truly alive in this moment. This is where he belongs… at Death’s side.

He wants to suckle this primordial cock for as long as he can, and yet even when there are rivulets of sweat drifting down his broad golden chest—when had he lost all his clothing save for his bird mask, for he remembers not—and his lungs burn with a need for air, he makes a protesting noise when Death’s hands gently pull him off.  
  
“Easy, my sweet,” is whispered in his ear. And then Jack is draped, naked and with painfully erect cock, across Death’s knees, with those powerful hands sliding down his back. He shivers and whines, arching his back under the touch, and cries out when a finger slides past the tight circle of muscles of his hole.  
  
“How you blossom beneath my touch,” Death murmurs, sounding faintly awed. Despite his immense power, he is a careful and giving lover, at times curling his finger to find the spot that makes Jack writhe, and other times brushing against his prostate, causing the young man to mewl and shamelessly rut against Death’s leg, seeking relief. But there is none of that, only sweet torment.  
  
Then there is a second finger, and soon, a third, carefully opening and softening him, until Jack is pliant and pleading. “My lord, please! Please!”

“So impatient!” Death says, his voice sounding rougher and deeper. “Very well, darling Jack, I will give you what you want. Stand.”  
  
Jack’s knees are weak and wobbly, and yet he manages to stand, to face Death, gazing into the dark eyeholes of the golden mask, licking his lips eagerly. Some change in Death’s demeanor, perhaps a hint of a smile from what little his mask reveals, suggests he is amused and pleased. He shifts on the dais, better seating himself, before sliding an arm around Jack’s waist and pulling him flush to his chest so that the young blond is straddling those powerful thighs.  
  
Jack understands. He makes a needy little noise before he eagerly positions himself over that thick cock, more than ready to impale himself upon Death’s spear.

But much to his frustration, the hands at his waist tighten, and a mortal man is no match for the strength of a primal being. He is lowered slowly, maddeningly slow, into Death’s embrace. He whines and mewls as Death slides within, inch by hot inch, so large that Jack thinks he might well be split in half. By the time he is fully seated, Jack is panting and gasping, face and neck and chest flushed pink, perspiration making his sun-kissed body glisten. He is made to wait, despite his impatient squirming, until his body has relaxed around the massive intrusion.

“Go on, then. Take your prize,” Death murmurs, finally easing the pressure of his hands. Jack is certain there will be bruise marks around his waist and abdomen on the morrow.

Jack does not need to be told twice. His hands braced on those broad shoulders, he lifts himself, muscles straining, and sliding into a rhythm slowly and then faster as he fucks himself relentlessly upon Death’s glory. He knows not if he will ever be given such a gift again; he fully intends to make full use of it now.

And so he does, sweat sliding down his chest, moaning loudly, fingers tightening on the fine velvet of the cloak at Death’s shoulders. The black-gloved fingers are lightly resting near his waist to steady him, but not hampering in the least. Jack is doing all the work and he doesn’t mind in the slightest, for this is truly a gift!

Though the mask obscures Death’s face, he knows the primal being affected, for there is a mounting tension to the body beneath him, and the gloved hands at times run up and down Jack’s sensitive skin, at one point even sliding over to rub a thumb over Jack’s nipple. Jack’s fingers are gripping the velvet-clad shoulders hard, and idly he notices the silky-soft dark curls that sometimes brush against his hand. Some distant part of Jack’s brain registers that the hair, cascading from beneath the feathered hat, has black wispy ends, smoke-like, and yet they feel solid enough when he boldly slides his fingers through them.

“Jack,” Death whispers. He’s moving more… fabulous hips rolling, black leather gloves tightening around the blond’s waist once again, taking control. He shifts and pumps his cock deeper, and Jack cries out when his prostate is milked. One, two, three pumps… and Jack’s vision blurs as he tosses his head back as he shatters. He splashes hot white come all over the bronze chest and abdomen, and while still twitching and shuddering in his own pleasure, he is unprepared for the new wave that washes over him when Death comes. Jack remembers screaming in ecstasy, shivering uncontrollably, as he all but collapses like a rag doll, Death’s arms wrapping around him to steady him.

When next Jack opens his eyes, he is back in his chambers in his family home, silken blankets draped across his naked body, and the window is open, allowing a breeze to stir the curtains.

Had it all been a dream? A vivid fantasy of his own making?

Jack pushes the sheets off, and it is only when he goes to move that the bruises and soreness in all the right places make themselves known. It hadn’t been a dream.

He smiles into the darkness, dropping back down onto the bed. “I will gladly serve Death, in any capacity,” he says out loud.  
  
_I know…_ the shadows whisper back. _My perfect little soldier… I will call upon you again…_

Jack drifts off back to sleep, content and satisfied, to the soft sound of a violin in the distance, the strings singing a beautiful dirge for those that Death had taken this night.


End file.
